


Chasing The Moon

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action, Canon - Enhances original, Canon - Non-canonical to good purpose, Canon - Outstanding AU/reinterpretation, Characters - Friendship, Characters - Good use of minor character(s), Characters - Strongly in character, Characters - Well-handled emotions, Plot - Can't stop reading, Plot - Fast moving, Plot - Good pacing, Subjects - Animals, Subjects - Legends/Myth/History, War of the Ring, Writing - Clear prose, Writing - Engaging style, Writing - Good use of humor, Writing - Well-handled dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2003-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-22 21:53:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3744812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eomer and Boromir set out on a dangerous journey to seek Rivendell.  This sequel to "Singing In The Sun" (already archived at HASA) is an A/U set just before FOTR.</p><p>Mithril Awards 2003 - Finalist - Best story focusing on Men</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of Thorns And Eyes In The Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

**Author's Note:**  
This is, indeed, a sequel to "Singing In The Sun," which I wrote based on a plotbunny unleashed by Eric "Falstaff" Gratton -- namely, to replace Merry and Pippin in the Fellowship with Eomer and someone I won't name yet to retain the surprise. Though actually I changed my mind about that and brought in somebody _else_...eh, still, I won't say.

My point is, "Singing In The Sun" introduced the A/U idea of sending Eomer off with Boromir on his pre-LOTR quest for Rivendell/Imladris. This pairing hit an unexpected chord with my readers, and I was deluged in requests for more. Um. I hadn't planned more. But! I thought about it, and wheels started to turn...

This is a very different tale. I'm very much a short-story writer. So if my experiment in penning greater length does not please those who liked the original piece, or if anyone thinks I played silly buggers with the time/distance scales, well, I apologize. But...this is what my muse served up. Enjoy!

Pedantic Note: I should note that I skipped a few weeks of travel-time between Edoras and Eregion between the previous tale and this one -- if anybody wants it, ask and it's yours.

Thanks To:  
My sounding boards: DarkRiver & Ramlatch  
My betareaders: Calliope, CocoaJava, Jenjinn, & Nicole  
My elvish language expert: Ramlatch

*******

"I was in the company that held the bridge, until it was cast down behind us. Four only were saved by swimming: my brother and myself and two others. But still we fight on, holding all the west shores of the Anduin; and those who shelter behind us give us praise, if ever they hear our name: much praise but little help. Only from Rohan now will any men ride to us when we call."

\-- Boromir before the Council of Elrond, "The Fellowship Of The Ring"

***

"The problem with holly is," Boromir said glumly, "it only _looks_ attractive."

He urged his mare forward, but she planted her hooves and favored him with a disbelieving stare. To be honest, he agreed with her. The bramble-choked ravine did not look appealing. All those thorns--

A stubborn equine snort off to his right indicated that his comrade was having no better luck. A moment later Eomer of Rohan rode back into view, shaking his head. "No passage to the east, either. We shall have to swing westward of the mountains and return to their feet when we've cleared this forsaken place."

He looked tired, and with good reason. After they'd crossed eastern Dunland, their northward path had become increasingly choked with thorny runners and wild holly. Finally, even Firefoot's brawny chest had proven unable to force a path. The big grey warhorse was nursing a web of scratches all over his dappled hide. He was sulking despite the fact that Eomer had salved the worst of his cuts.

_Or, more likely, the salve is to blame for his foul mood._ As they turned west and made better time through girth-high weeds, Boromir grimaced ruefully at the stallion's expression. He'd been subjected to that same medicine himself, once or twice. Though effective, it stung like a--

That was when the world dropped out from under him.

***

Eomer was lost in thought, considering the clues that had set them on this strange quest in the first place -- seeking a legendary land and the truth behind myth, dream, and song -- when Smokechaser screamed and vanished from sight, rider and all.

_"Boromir--!"_ Eomer's cry was drowned out by a squeal from his own mount. Firefoot propped to a spooked halt, fighting his reins with wild eyes as he cast about for an enemy to flatten. By the time Eomer managed to wrestle all four of the stallion's hooves back to the ground, there was no sign of man nor mare.

"Boromir, curse you, _answer me_ ," he shouted. Then he listened intently.

Nothing.

The Rider narrowed his eyes, casting over the hidden ground. If the ancient poem held true, they were near dwarven territory -- a mine shaft, perhaps? He shuddered at the sudden terrible image of friend and faithful steed plummeting end over end into the dark... No! Dwarves preferred deep rocky mountain fastnesses, didn't they? They did not dig randomly. They were not gophers!

Reining in his runaway imagination, Eomer breathed deep then whistled long and shrill. He was rewarded by an unhappy whinny less than a dozen feet away...and down.

***

Boromir shook his head dazedly and coughed up foxtails. The side of his face was mashed into loose dirt, and his hip hurt like blazes when he rolled onto his back, but nothing ground together when he sat up and he was fairly certain that the coppery taste in his mouth was merely from a split lip.

He spat blood then stared about. At first glance this was a large hole in the ground, deeper than Smokechaser was tall and overgrown by a deceptive fringe of tall weeds. On closer scrutiny, however, the "floor" was more-or-less level and flanked by four distinct (if crumbling) walls. A strange thing to find in the middle of nowhere. If it was a trap, it was a poor one.

Boromir's head jerked up as he felt/heard approaching hoofbeats, "Eomer, 'ware!" he called, but he needn't have worried; the cadence was slow and cautious, and then it halted entirely. Pebbles rattled down. He looked up to see Firefoot's proud neck framed against the afternoon sky.

"Do _not_ move," Eomer told him. "I shall be right down."

Of course, Boromir disregarded this advice and heaved himself to his feet even as his companion swung over the side of the pit and dropped in. Eomer gave him a quick glance, nodded with relief to see him apparently unharmed, then hastened to examine Smokechaser. The bay mare was shaking and her gear was thrown wildly over her right side, but she calmed under Eomer's soothing touch and allowed him to inspect her.

He was joined shortly by his limping friend. After days on the road together, the Gondorian knew how deeply his northern friend cared for horses, and he'd become fond of the sweet-tempered mare himself, so he let all other concerns wait until Eomer seemed satisfied with her condition. "Well? How does she fare?"

"I cannot tell for certain until I can judge her gait, but the ground is soft down here -- she seems to have weathered the fall as well as you did."

"I feel as though I have been tenderized," Boromir muttered.

Eomer gave him a kindly pat on the arm. "As does she, I wager. Let's get you both out of...what _is_ this place?"

"A cellar," Boromir realized. "A cellar without a dwelling above. Perhaps long ago..." He understood. "These are ruins."

"Ruins, eh? We may be on the correct trail after all. Remember what the song told? 'Empty silence before the moon-chased gates / Where once gold and gems had gleamed amid hearths and holly / And smiths' hammers rang out to defy the darkness.' The lost elven smithies of Eregion, remember...?"

"Mmm. I've already had my fill of the part about the holly." Boromir winced as he levered himself up on the lowest and most collapsed of the four walls. Nothing within his body was broken, true, but he'd been thrown hard. It would be difficult to climb back into the saddle today, let alone after a night's rest on the hard ground.

"Gates, eh? Perhaps we ought to seek out the dwarves and the possibility of a hot bath. Since the dragon was slain at Escaroth, the earthdwellers have been more willing to trade with humanfolk..."

Eomer did not answer until he'd managed, with much pulling and puffing and coaxing, to guide Smokechaser up a precarious heap of shifted turf so she could regain solid ground above. By the time he was done, he was breathing hard and as grimy as Boromir.

"We're in luck," he said, gratefully accepting a tossed waterskin. "Another foot higher and I don't know how we would have fetched her out. She's favoring a few scrapes across her hindquarters, but she's otherwise sound. You're both unbroken, and for that I'm glad."

"As am I," Boromir noted dryly. "So. What say you of a visit to the dwarves?"

Eomer gulped down a mouthful of tepid water and shook droplets out of his short-cropped beard. "I am wary of it," he admitted. He lobbed the canteen back and recaptured Firefoot's reins as the stallion mouthed his sleeve. "We would need to ride back into _that_ \--" he indicated the thorny wastes behind them, between the ruins and the mountains to the east "--with no certainty of a warm reception. _If_ we stumbled upon the front door of Dwarrowdelf in the first place. I, for one, would prefer to be away northward by nightfall. Have you noticed the silence...?"

"I had, but I had other matters on my mind." Boromir plucked a persistent burr from above his ear and, gingerly, led his mount toward the lowering sun.

***

With great care and by staying afoot, the two travelers avoided any more incidents. They picked their way over the low remnants of walls and skirted random chunks of charred masonry. Very little was left of this ancient elvenhome, if the tales were true and this was not merely some forgotten human settlement.

Boromir wanted to press on into the night, but Smokechaser balked and Eomer reluctantly sided with the tired mare. Reluctantly, for while they'd circumvented the snarled wilderness and turned back towards the mountains they had heard no sound of bird nor beast.

Uneasy, they set camp for the night in a grassy hollow and did not light a fire. The silence was worse in the dark, but it seemed better to tolerate an oppressive nothing than to attract a dangerous something. Neither desired to forage for game -- surely a hopeless task, as the land seemed to have been plundered bare -- so it was a cheerless evening of cold rations and cold blankets.

Eomer took first watch, reasoning that the morningwards shift would allow Boromir time to regain movement in sore muscles which stiffened overnight. He was unpleasantly surprised to be shaken awake long before dawn.

"If I have learned one thing during our travels," Boromir commented wryly, "it is that the men of Rohan snore louder than the men of Gondor -- and are harder to rouse!

"I believe we should move on, without waiting for the sun," he explained more soberly when the Rider fixed him with a blearily indignant glare. "The horses..."

Firefoot chose that exact moment to shrill a challenge to the smothering darkness. Eomer jerked fully awake. Rather than grazing upon the grass, both animals had crowded into the makeshift campsite...and Firefoot was planted directly _over_ Eomer himself.

His blood ran cold. That meant one thing, and one thing only...

"I feared he would trample you, but he would not allow me to--" Boromir was explaining, but he fell silent when Eomer exploded from his bedroll to arm and pack with frightening haste.

"Orcs," he hissed. "Or something of the sort. He's trained to defend a downed man."

"Excellent training," Boromir replied, wasting no time saddling his mare and lashing his gear into place. He'd been mostly equipped already, from standing watch, so he was ready before Eomer and stood squinting into the night with his naked sword in his hand. His hip and back throbbed with a low hot pain from his spill the day before, but he'd suffered worse after long training sessions in the courtyard with his father's swordmaster. The adrenaline was already surging in his blood, washing away the aches. He was ready to fight, if a fight there must be.

Yet a fight persistently refused to appear. Nothing moved in the darkness. A breeze rippled through the high grass, brushing weeds together -- could _that_ have set the highstrung stallion off? An overactive imagination _might_ mistake the small dry scraping whispers for something creeping closer, closer...

Creaking leather and a jingle of harness told him that Eomer was in the saddle. He heard the Rider suck in a harsh breath. "Boromir. Mount up. _Now._ "

The Rider's tone brooked no hesitation. Biting down an unseemly grunt of pain, Boromir clambered up Smokechaser's stirrup. "What..."

He stopped dead, then swore eloquently under his breath. From this angle he beheld pale eyes in the grass. A great wide ring of them. Closing in.

Firefoot was dancing in place, champing his bit and flaring scarlet nostrils at the prospect of battle. Eomer unshipped his spear, and the same reckless light gleamed in his eyes. "At least it shall be a change from that accursed silence!"

"No." Boromir regarded the rolling nightscape at length, counting and weighing. "There are too many of them."

"Feh! Those are hardly proper orcs. This maggotbreed is no match for men such as we."

The Gondorian twisted in the saddle to confirm his suspicions, and he grimly shook his head. "There are too many," he repeated. "Kill as many as you like, the rest will drag you from your saddle and rip the flesh from your bones. And why haven't they attacked yet? They must know we've seen them by now. They must be waiting for something else to arrive. I have heard travelers speak of fell beasts that serve the mountain breed... I am no seer, but this does not bode well."

He snared Eomer's restless gaze with his own calm grey one -- and deliberately sheathed his sword. "You told me once that there is nothing the two of us cannot outfight or outrun. If the first is not a wise option..."

Eomer nodded, though not without a glimmer of regret. "Then we ride."

Grey stallion and bay mare leapt forward as one, hooves scoring the earth and thrashing the high grass as they charged. Eomer bent low against Firefoot's neck, spear rock-steady over his arm; Boromir unslung his shield on his outward side and braced it, veering Smokechaser closer and closer until the two horses galloped like a team in traces.

Now at last the eerie silence was rent asunder. Shivering, ululating screeches rose from all directions. Enraged at their prey's unsporting attempt to escape, skulking noisome shapes abandoned stealth and burst from the brush, leaping and gibbering, racing to tighten their circle like a snare around a rabbit's throat.

Too late! Boromir ducked behind his shield-arm and tensed in his stirrups as the living trap flashed before them, a nightmare of bulging eyes and leprous cave-pale flesh and mismatched fangs. Something smashed against his shield, nearly knocking him out of his saddle. Another sprang at his unprotected thigh, but even as it gouged his boot a snap of Firefoot's teeth cast it screaming beneath a deadly blur of churning hooves.

An unearthly wail of goblin agony, a deep grunt from Eomer -- his spear had struck home! Boromir glimpsed the writhing body as Eomer lifted it overhead to discard it in their passing. He tore his gaze away and clutched the reins tight as Smokechaser suddenly squealed and leaped at full stride, flinging her heels out to strike something alive with a sickening _crack_ \--

Then they were through, and away, and fleeting north under the shadow of the Misty Mountains.  



	2. Of Doubt And Things That Are Not Wolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eomer and Boromir set out on a dangerous journey to seek Rivendell. This sequel to "Singing In The Sun" (already archived at HASA) is an A/U set just before FOTR.

They rode by night and rested under the watchful sun after that. Twice more they were assaulted in the dark, and both times only their steeds' swift strides bore them away unharmed. Boromir had been right: attacking these cavern-bred beasts was like trying to hack through gristle and maggots, and there were always many more close behind.

The danger eased once they were two nights' hard ride from the wastes of Eregion. "If the dwarves indeed dwell under that mountain," Eomer grumbled over a mid-morning meal, "I cannot speak highly of their taste in neighbors."

"I daresay dwarves enjoy the company of orcs as little as we," Boromir replied absently. He was stirring the cookfire with a stick, his mind far away to the south. It had been months now since he'd set out from Minas Tirith, on a warm summer day with pennants snapping in the breeze from the Anduin...

It felt like a lifetime ago. Did his city still stand? Were his father and his brother still alive? He and Eomer followed no road, and thus they had no word from their blighted homelands. After having been immersed in the daily routines of his father's rule for as long as he could recall, he felt cast adrift...as if this long ride was but another dream.

Eomer was humming something complex under his breath as he repaired a rip in his tunic. He'd set aside his riding mail and was stripped to the waist, enjoying the dual respite from road and shrieking horde. Boromir eyed him in vague annoyance, sweltering in his own ornate apparel. Eomer glanced over and grinned. "If you wish me to turn away to protect your maidenly innocence, you have my word of honor..."

"Were I a blushing maiden, I would hardly trust this 'honor' you claim to possess," Boromir retorted, but for once his heart was not in the bantering game. "Eomer...do you not miss your Golden Hall? You offered a fortnight to my fools' errand, and it has been far more than that..."

The Rider finished mending the tear, bit off the knotted thread, and set the armful of cloth aside. Boromir's words struck deep, but when he considered his friend's misery he decided that his own worries were of little concern.

"My oath may have been rash, but it was a promise made and it shall be a promise kept." He sighed ruefully. "I am already in poor grace at my uncle's court, but my cousin has faith in me. I believe he already suspected that my 'leave' might spill over into the winter months. If there is any unrest caused by my absence, I trust Theodred to smooth the matter aside.

"Ah, but I am merely a captain of horsemen, easily replaced and easily dismissed from my lord's wandering thoughts. What of you, Steward's heir?"

Boromir was still staring into the fire, tapping sparks from embers. "I have no doubt you are sorely missed by your men and your people," he rebuked gently. "But I am glad of your company and would selfishly keep it for as long as you can spare it.

"As for my own obligations..." He hesitated, then sagged as if losing some long-raging inner conflict. "You might have enjoyed my brother's company better than my own. I am beginning to believe that I have usurped his rightful quest. _He_ is the dreamer, the visionary. The riddle came to _him_. _He_ should be the one riding away from doom to seek the advice of elves, not I...

"No, that did not sound right."

He paused to collect his thoughts, rubbing the bridge of his nose with one hand. Eomer held his tongue and waited patiently, trying not to keep his own thoughts from turning toward his sister alone in the dark halls of Edoras, like a lily wilting under stone. Theodred would look after her. Eomer had faith in his cousin. That had to be enough.

"I did not mean to imply that Faramir is a coward," Boromir ventured at last. "It is just that I wish we lived in softer times, so he could spend as many hours in the library as his heart desires. He _should_ be allowed to charge off on gallant quests to hunt for legends. He is a great captain of men, yes...but I regret the necessity. If he were not so desperately needed in Ithilien..."

"You lied about sharing his dream." Eomer suddenly understood. "You took this quest because you thought your land needed him more than it needed _you_."

Boromir hung his head wearily. "My father is...not always correct," he admitted with difficulty, as if the words were treasonous. "I am staunch with a blade, and perhaps I shall make a decent Steward someday, but in truth Gondor needs my brother's fine mind far more than she needs my strong sword-arm.

"However, I now find myself besieged by doubt. I thought I was sparing Faramir from danger by shouldering this task on his behalf. What if I merely abandoned him to danger instead...? That great terrible dark _thing_ we could not face when Osgiliath fell..." He shuddered. "It is loose in our land now, and I...

"I rode away to look for elves."

He fell silent, bitterly, and regretted speaking of his gnawing doubts at such length.

Eomer was quiet for a moment, respecting his friend's downcast turmoil. Then he said, deliberately, "I am willing to wager, had all your what-ifs come to pass and were I sharing this fire with your dear brother, he would be saying very much the same of _you_...but he would use far longer words, and I would be half-dead of boredom. Thus I am grateful for the fate which has befallen us instead."

Caught off-guard, Boromir guffawed. "I suspect you are closer to the truth than I like! Are you dispensing ancient Rohirric wisdom again, o great sage of the plains?"

"If you care to call my impertinence 'wise,' I shall not gainsay you. After all, I have already suffered my share of _your_ lofty advice as well...and much of it has consisted of 'if you attack that, you idiot savage, you will _die_.'"

"Hah! It was true, was it not?"

"Eh!" Eomer waved his hand dismissively. "An ill-informed opinion from a southern dandy. You have not yet had the privilege of beholding my skill in battle."

A grinning Boromir rose to the bait even as he captured his well-roasted meal before it charred. "If this fabled fighting prowess of yours is worth even a tenth of your arrogance, I should be too cowed to even _think_ of drawing my paltry sword in your shining presence..."

***

The conversation took a long, jovial, boasting turn, and Boromir slept more soundly that afternoon than he had for weeks. This pleasant mood was only slightly dampened when they rode headlong into a low wet mist that evening; however, the fog deepened over the next two nights of their northward journey until it was impossible to find safe footing a'horse after the moon set.

The land was rising, becoming rockier and more scrubby; when Firefoot stumbled and skidded alarmingly down a scree slope on the third night, they were forced to wait for daylight to resume. They spent the next night wary and tense, expecting attack, but morning dawned serene. It seemed that they had, indeed, left the goblin infestation behind in the desolation of Eregion.

Boromir had been yearning for some variation in the endless trot-canter-trot pace of their journey so far, but now that they'd slowed to a careful crawl -- picking around deep ravines, wending through tree-studded outcrops, pausing again and again to remove stones from the horses' shoes. Now he found himself yearning for a long hard gallop.

Even Eomer's sunny disposition was fraying around the edges. He'd hum absently at times, but he no longer whistled or passed the time regaling his companion with endless sagas about dubious ancestors.

It was getting colder, too. Winter was almost upon them. The leaves had fallen in a thick red-gold carpet and great clouds of plump waterfowl occasionally winged past overhead, fleeing unseen ponds for warmer climes. Both men regretted the lack of a bow. Rabbit was plentiful, but snares were unpredictable and the hardtack was running low.

They halted late one afternoon on the brink of a small stream -- hardly more than a ribbon of icy snow run-off, but enough to refresh the horses and wash off some of the grime. Water, at least, was in plentiful supply. While Smokechaser pawed fussily at her reflection, Boromir sat down on a rock and smoothed out the aged map.

"I doubt it has changed since last you studied it," Eomer teased from where he was splashing water on his face and neck. "When we reach the Bruinen, we shall know."

"I am not so certain of that. How shall we tell one river from the next in this untracked land?"

"Well, I do not think it is _this_ one," the Rider replied lightly. He shook himself, wet braids flying, then caught Firefoot's bridle and tugged him away from the stream before the stallion could drink himself sick. In some matters, Firefoot lacked sense. The middle of nowhere was no place for a bout of colic.

Boromir peered towards the setting sun, sighted along the snow-heavy mountains, then packed the map safely away. "For now, I believe we are still on the right course...though I wonder if we should veer westward. I would rather cross the Bruinen too far west than miss its headwaters entirely by hugging the slopes too close."

"A point well taken. Should we do so now, before night falls? Yet I would rather we remain here and camp early tonight. I like this place well enough, and there are signs of deer on the landing."

"And how would we take one without bows nor hounds?" Boromir pointed out practically. However, the thought of venison (though wasteful, with no way to preserve the uneaten meat) was a tempting one. Perhaps the right sort of snare? He was handy with simple woodsman's traps, though he'd never set one for something so large before...

Eomer was about to reply when the hair on both mens' necks prickled. Something howled in the distance, mountainward and south...something that was answered faintly in the southwest, then again from due south. Both horses nuzzled close, snorting and stamping.

"Wolves?" Eomer hazarded in low uncertain tones; no large predators roamed his native plains.

"There are wolves in Ithilien, and they do not sound like _that_ ," Boromir replied in the same manner. He immediately felt a little foolish. The creatures which had uttered those unnerving cries were far away, certainly not close enough to overhear voices, and they were unlikely to approach. No wild hunter would bother with two mounted, armed humans when the woods were stocked with fat game...

More wailing howls rose to the south, this time in a dissonant chorus. Boromir had hunted with hounds in his youth; he knew that note. It meant death for whatever prey the beasts now scented.

"Let us hope it is not _we_ who have attracted such attention," Eomer muttered, obviously thinking the same.

"I would rather not place false trust in that hope and be rudely mauled in my sleep." The Gondorian was already on his feet and climbing back into the saddle; not an easy task, for Smokechaser was sidling anxiously. Unlike Eomer's high-strung handful, the mare had been a placid well of strength throughout the long nights of goblin pursuit. To see her eyes rolling white and her ears flicking now...

It boded ill, and Eomer was not blind. "This land is no fit place to outrun pursuit," he observed tersely. He was checking Firefoot's girth, wishing now that he had not allowed the stallion to drink so deep.

"Then we move as quickly as we can." With a pat on Smokechaser's quivering shoulder, Boromir urged her into the foot-deep rivulet and turned downstream -- westwards. "And we move _now_."  



	3. Of Flight And Fading Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eomer and Boromir set out on a dangerous journey to seek Rivendell. This sequel to "Singing In The Sun" (already archived at HASA) is an A/U set just before FOTR.

By nightfall there was no mistaking the eerie howls for anything but pursuit. They had seen no sign of the creatures yet, but there seemed to be at least six, and there was nothing natural about them. No natural predator would single-mindedly pursue a cold, unappetizingly human trail for hours on end...

They were running again, and this time it was far worse. Nothing makes a man's stomach crawl like being forced to wend slowly, ever so slowly, across exposed open spaces while danger approaches swiftly from behind. They urged the horses as fast as they dared, but the land was now a wild beautiful broken place of thistles and gorse, stone ridges, sharp drops carved by swift icy streams, and loose slate-gravel slopes innocently clothed in the last vegetation of the year. Every hasty step risked a broken leg, and that would spell death for certain.

As if that were not bad enough, whatever was on their trail was not deterred by sunlight. Resting was no longer an option. They'd already ridden all through the previous day; as misty night rolled into hazy cold morn and onward, the horses were stumbling with weariness and their riders were not much better. Boromir, who had never been able to master the art of sleeping in the saddle, caught himself dozing off as the sun rolled down towards evening.

He cursed and shook himself awake, but he needn't have worried. Eomer, who usually had no trouble catching a nap on long dull rides, was too unnerved to close his eyes -- not because of their pursuit, oddly, but because the uneven terrain was beginning to give way to forest. As branches closed over their heads with increasing frequency, Boromir blearily noticed that his comrade was peering about with ill-concealed...unease?

_No,_ he realized with a start. _He is afraid._

"Is there something you have not told me of this land? Some terrifying legend, some dark rumor?" he asked as evening shadows streamed across their path. The woods were a blessing, for there the stones underfoot gave way to leafy loam and they were making far better time. However, Eomer looked drawn and pale, and he rode hunched as if he wanted to duck between his shoulders and vanish.

"Dark rumor...? Not of _this_ land, no." The Rider bit his lip, glancing overhead as if he expected the trees to bend down and devour them whole. "It is simply that...I have never set foot in a roadless forest before."

Boromir was too tired to be tactful -- he laughed, though briefly. "We are fleeing for our lives from some unknown evil most likely set upon our trail by those accursed goblins, and you fear the _trees_?! This is a strange thing indeed! Did you tumble from a high branch when you were very small?"

Eomer cast him a sour look. "You would not scoff had you been raised in the Mark. We are well acquainted with two ancient forests: Fangorn to the high west and the Goldenwood beyond that. No man who enters either ever returns."

"Ah. Is that all...? Unless we are more lost than any men in the history of questing, I can assure you that this is neither Fangorn nor Lothlorien. I am rather certain I would have noticed had we accidentally crossed the mountains--"

"I am no child, do not patronize me!" Eomer snarled angrily. Almost instantly, however, his expression shifted to mortification. "Forgive me. I know you were merely trying to lighten the mood. I...perhaps we should just ride."

Boromir was taken aback but not angered. "Perhaps that is best," he said neutrally. "Surely we will reach open ground again beyond the next ridge."

***

They did not. The woods continued, much to Eomer's discomfort; the footing improved, but the ground was rising. Starlight and moonlight eased their way in the night, but by the next morning both men and animals were drawn with exhaustion. They'd eaten dry rations in the saddle and risked quick breaks to allow the horses a few unbridled mouthfuls of grass, but they could risk no more than that. The howls were drawing inexorably closer. They'd gained a fair lead among the trees, but now the horses were flagging and there was no end in sight--

And then there was. Just as the sun broke over the mountains, they topped the rise they'd been steadily climbing for hours...and, below, a wide valley rolled away to the north, offering a welcoming patchwork of forest and clearing.

Even better, a silvery river sprang from the rumpled valleys at the head of the lowlands and wended away west. There, it met another such stream and vanished over the horizon. From their high angle, it looked very much like...

"I told you we would know the Bruinen when we saw it!" Eomer exultantly cuffed Boromir on the arm. "An easy downhill course, a morning's gallop to the riverbank, and who knows? We may yet survive to be used for target practice by the guardians of Imladris!"

Boromir spared him a worn ghost of a smile. "They need not waste arrows on us -- we would save them the trouble and drop dead at their feet. Gallop? Ah! I remember galloping, long ago when I was a younger man. Hup, Smokey m'lady. Let us see what we have left--"

Firefoot's ears suddenly pinned back. He bunched his hindquarters and pivoted sharply, almost pulling Eomer's arms from their sockets. Without hesitation, Boromir wheeled his mare and recklessly leaned out to entangle his fist in the stallion's bridle. He was nearly yanked from his saddle, but he clamped his knees tight and braced his broad shoulders and held fast.

Thus, both he and Eomer witnessed what had goaded the grey charger into battle-readiness...

A shift in the wind suddenly burned their senses with a foul rotting stench. At the base of the rise, along the very path they had forged less than an hour before, underbrush shook and branches snapped...and then an ugly head lifted to scent the trail with a broad snout. It had powerful wide haunches and sharp black eyes and a mouthful of jagged fangs.

It was not alone. Other monstrous shapes were emerging from the shadows on either side. And then, with a horrible wet snuffling snort audible even far above, it stared straight up at them.

Somehow Eomer found enough strength of arm and will to drag Firefoot back, to turn him -- the stallion was sick of running, he wanted to attack! However, those beasts were _not_ wolves, and they were easily more than half the size of a horse. One look was enough to convince both men that their only chance lay in seeking a more defensible position. The knife-edged ridge was an excellent vantage point, but it offered scant purchase for fighting hooves. One slip and it would be all over.

Behind them the pack burst into full cry, a gleeful cacophony which froze the guts with terror...but the horses were already away, down the sparsely-wooded slope. Faster and faster -- by the time they leveled out at the bottom they were galloping harder than they had for days, long ground-eating strides born of desperation and lent wings by the downslope charge.

Leaves flew underfoot; trees flashed past, clearings flickered sunlight and were gone. Grey stallion and bay mare snorted hard with each stride as they used their last reserves, striving to...what? Reach the river? Boromir could not think through the haze of exhaustion, and he knew Eomer was no better. They were trying to reach the river...why?

Clarity struck, and his stomach clenched. _Because they'd been trying to reach the river all along._ Because it was their destination. It was where they had to be, to find Imladris...but Imladris wasn't _on_ the river. Nothing was. From their brief vantage point on the ridge above they had seen no civilization, not even a farm, as far as the eye could roam. The river was merely the final clue in the puzzle of dream and song. It was no safe haven. There was no one there to help them, nowhere to hide, no choice but to stand and fight on the bank of the Bruinen despite leaden arms and blurring eyes...

The baying behind them grew suddenly louder -- the pack must have cleared the ridge -- and then just as suddenly went silent. This was far worse, for now they could not discern where the beasts were. Still behind them? Or circling to the sides...?

Sun flashed on metal as both men reached the same conclusion and drew their weapons: Boromir with his heavy longsword and Eomer with Guthwine, his lighter Rohirric blade. Spear and shield would not avail them now. Everything felt distant and unreal, for the young forest around them was beautiful in the first light of the day. Birds twittered in the distance, but not here. Here the only sound was the drumming of hooves on leaf-drifted earth, and the harsh rhythmic blowing snorts of exhausted steeds fighting for breath...

They did not reach the river. After all that, after everything, they failed.  



	4. Of Desperation And Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eomer and Boromir set out on a dangerous journey to seek Rivendell. This sequel to "Singing In The Sun" (already archived at HASA) is an A/U set just before FOTR.

Branches whipped and tore across their faces, and it was a relief to burst into another clearing...but their flight was over. They had been cut off. Their escape was blocked.

Even by Eomer's standards Boromir had proven himself a fine rider, but his ability could no longer sustain him against exhaustion. As Smokechaser shrieked and plunged to a halt, he lost his grip. He was flung over the mare's shoulder, striking the ground sidelong and rolling twice before he could regain his feet. Miraculously, he still held his sword in one white-knuckled hand...but he barely had time to toss his sweaty hair out of his eyes before one of the beasts was upon him.

Eomer had problems of his own. Firefoot did not hesitate -- he _sped up_ , tail bannered on the wind, to smash headlong into their foes. Eomer clung close as the stallion rose high, pawed at the air, and screamed in rage. Shod hooves crunched into a fanged face. Blood flew -- black blood, not red -- and upon impact Guthwine flew tumbling through the air to thud into the grass.

The sword was as good as lost. Eomer's world was now a whirl of flying mane and snapping jaws, a confusing din of snarls and the uneven thuds of hoof against earth and hide. He locked his knees and drew his hunting knife, but it was little use against these unnatural beasts! He desperately yearned to ride to Boromir's side, but after his brave charge Firefoot was now encircled by three of the monsters. Eomer had no choice. Merely keeping his seat was hard work, let alone fending death away from the stallion's sides with only a dagger's-length of steel in hand...

Meanwhile, Boromir was holding his own...barely. He'd given way when the monster leapt, landing on his back and letting the beast's own momentum drive his braced sword deep between its shaggy ribs. It screamed and scrambled away, nearly wrenching his sword from his hands, but he held fast and regained his feet.

Though not dead, the creature was breathing badly and drooling blood. It circled the clearing with hatred in its black eyes, preventing escape and awaiting vengeance. Still, the blow was well struck, for it allowed Boromir to turn to his besieged friend. What little hope they had lay in alliance. They must stand together, or surely fall!

He'd barely taken two steps, however, when two more beasts launched into the fray. Growling with frustration, the Gondorian ducked under the first and spun to rake his blade along the other's face. It was an elegant move, but it was not enough -- he'd missed the eye. Now it was _truly_ enraged.

He heard Firefoot shriek in agony, and his heart lurched, but he could not see, could not help, could do nothing...for his own foes were fast upon him again. A huge matted chest slammed against his raised swordarm. The impact drove him to one knee. Jaws slavered inches before his eyes, straining to seize and rend. Gasping under its weight, Boromir struggled to hold it at bay, but for what? The other would surely fall upon him from behind. He was trapped -- he could not turn, could not defend his back, could do nothing but hold firm, and that only for moments more...

His swordarm shook and sank. The monster knew its prey's last shred of endurance was ebbing. Triumphant, it yowled wetly into his face with a great stinking blast of hot breath...

Then something whispered past his cheek; the merest breeze caressed his ear. The beast gaped silent in mid-screech, one black eye rolling wildly. The other...?

The other was now host to a long, pale, white-fletched arrow.

The beast's full weight abruptly crushed down upon him, but it was no longer dangerous. Boromir shoved hard and rolled aside. He whirled to face the other, only to find it already slumped dead with two bloody shafts jutting through its throat. From behind.

Not allowing himself time to wonder, he cast about wildly for his companion. The Rider was still miraculously in the saddle and relatively unharmed, but Firefoot was streaming scarlet from a dozen wounds and staggering under the weight of two attackers. A third lay silent in the grass, its skull grotesquely crushed. Still, two were more than enough! Firefoot shrilled wildly as he fought to stay afoot -- Eomer was shouting hoarse defiance as he hacked and kicked, but he had only a knife...

Boromir thought quickly as he stumbled across the torn grass. Their unknown ally was behind them, which meant that only one of the two beasts was within bowshot. The other was blocked by the horse's own body.

Strategy sprang into his trained mind. He circled wide of Firefoot's threshing hooves and hurled himself upon the farthest attacker. The beast roared with anger, tossing its heavy head back -- then it gurgled and spasmed and slid loose. Eomer's knife was buried hilt-deep in its exposed throat.

And, just as Boromir had hoped, the other squalled and crashed to the ground with an arrow sunk deep into its back. It twisted frantically, seeking escape, but it was struck dead by a second shaft in the heart before it could rise to flee.

There had been a sixth beast, the one which had suffered a deep lung wound when it had knocked Boromir to the ground. The Gondorian tensed, expecting one last assault, but then a stacatto pounding from the clearing's edge caught his ear. An unharmed Smokechaser was furiously trampling what remained of the creature.

Well. Whether it had bled to death from its injury or whether the mare had done the deed herself, he was not going to question their good fortune. Instead, he seized Eomer's bent knee and hissed urgently, "Are you hurt? Don't move. Rein him in."

"I...I am well enough," Eomer gasped, "just....winded, and... The arrows. Yes, I see. Firefoot, shhh, quiet now, you've done well, shhh..."

Boromir peered into the trees, but saw nothing and nobody. As the adrenaline ebbed he had to fight to stay on his feet; he gripped Eomer's stirrup to steady himself. "Who's there?" he called. "We would thank you properly, friend."

Only wind moved in the leaves...then a branch rustled slightly and a single figure dropped to the ground, longbow in hand and a quiver of white-fletched arrows slung across his back. He was clad in grey, slightly roadworn but of fine workmanship; delicately chased silver patterns seemed to shift and twine as he stepped into the open sun. He was blond but far paler than Eomer; his long fine hair was a striking white-gold, half of it caught back in a complicated knot.

And there was something about him...

Boromir felt Eomer's thigh tighten with shock against his steadying hand.

Their rescuer was no man, but an Elf.  



	5. Of Nightmares And Lost Kin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eomer and Boromir set out on a dangerous journey to seek Rivendell. This sequel to "Singing In The Sun" (already archived at HASA) is an A/U set just before FOTR.

He fell.

The water struck with a harsh flat slap and instantly closed over his head. It was cold, and deep, and it tasted of silt and blood. He could not tell which way was up, for the current was tumbling him like a leaf and his lungs were screaming for air...

Then, just as he was forced to close his burning eyes, he caught the blurred orange-gold of flames.

_Above!_

He kicked desperately, thrashing against the deadly weight of mail and leather, but he could not wrench his eyes open and he could not tell if the surface was closer. His cloak was dragging against his throat, choking him. He tried to release the clasp but his fingers were already numb, numb and cold, and the dark was closing in.

_He was going to die._

And not with dignity. His body struggled against oncoming doom like a wild animal. An involuntary gasp filled his throat with water...

Then something caught a handful of his cloak and nigh tore out a hank of his long hair. He yelled involuntarily with pain. Almost dreamlike, he felt his last breath escape in a pitifully small rush of bubbles...but the grip on his neck pulled tight, pulled hard, and suddenly he could hear again, see again, _breathe_ again!

Or...no. He fought for a lungful of air, and choked instead on the foul water in his mouth. He struggled to seize this last chance to stay afloat, but the chainmail was impossibly heavy and the sodden cloth tangled his limbs as binding as rope...

Somewhere in the back of his terrified mind he knew what was going to happen next. An arm would lock under his chin to hold him steady; a familiar voice in his ear would calm him, order him to cough up the water he'd swallowed, and help him to breathe again. He would be pulled to shore. He would even regain enough control to help clamber onto the ruined jetty.

Then they and two others -- the only survivors of the staunch company who'd held to the very last -- would lie panting and dripping on the ancient stonework. They would cast one last haunted look up at the broken bridge and the ruined city, at the flames and the darkness...at their failure...and they would rise and stagger away to fight another day.

That was what was supposed to happen. He was supposed to be saved. He was supposed to live.

But this time Faramir was not there for him. There was no gentle voice, no warm arm, no lifeline of hope. His brother had abandoned him to the darkness, and he screamed without a sound as the deep cold waters of the Anduin claimed him--

"Sîdh. Hain pân si mae, abonnen."

Not a familiar voice, but not an unpleasant one -- vaguely, he recalled now. The fight. The archer who'd come to their aid. Deciding to trust him to keep watch while they rested. It seemed strange now, to risk their safety to a stranger, but the decision had been made through a haze of exhaustion, and...there was that amazing voice...

It pierced Boromir's mind like a shaft of sunlight, and with a start he was awake. He was not in Osgiliath. He was dry, and safe, and the only water was the rushing murmur of the Bruinen a dozen yards away.

He found that he was sitting up, and he exhaled hugely and rested his forehead against his folded arms. Then he peered at the sun and frowned. "You should not have let me sleep so long."

"You were in dire need of it." The stranger sounded archly amused with a hint of masked affection, like an adult addressing a fussy child. "I have never seen any living beings sleep so hard. If there _had_ been any more wargs in these lowlands, they could have devoured the pair of you as slowly as they'd pleased, and you would have snored peacefully to the end."

At the mention of "snoring," Boromir glanced over and felt better to see that Eomer was still fast asleep. At least, he had to assume that the tightly-cocooned bedroll contained his traveling companion, judging by the half-raveled braids trailing out. All was peaceful. Both horses were grazing on the riverbank; they'd been joined by an unfamiliar silver-grey mare, and Firefoot's wounds had been tended.

"Wargs." He rolled the new word on his tongue. "Those beasts had a name?"

"It is what I have heard them called. I suppose it shall suffice. Such things are born without a name, and should die the same way."

It was startling to hear such acid in such a voice. And from such a creature! Though thoughts of elves had been rare in a practical fighting-man's life, Boromir had to admit that he'd entertained vague notions of wispy, flighty creatures concerned only with flowers and song.

The grey-clad stranger seated on a rock before him was no ethereal fancy. He was fair of face and form, yes, but his eyes were dark with untold years; he was as tall as Boromir himself, and he carried himself with the assurance of a captain and the subtle strength of an archer. Boromir doubted he could pull that bow, let alone wield it with such deadly accuracy.

"If you are such an expert on names, archer," Eomer unexpectedly interjected, not bothering to emerge from his blanket, "perhaps you should tell us yours."

Boromir muffled a groan. It had been very difficult, upon the previous evening, to convince the wary Rider to allow this stranger to stand watch. It had been equally obvious that the elf did not wish to tarry; he wore the air of a man with an important mission, though he would say nothing of it. Luckily, Eomer had proven too leaden with weariness to present a convincing argument, and their visitor had proven too soft-hearted to leave them unguarded.

Though Boromir was gathering the impression that "soft-hearted" was not a word the proud, elegant stranger would have easily borne.

The elf bridled at the brash demand...but then he inclined his head stiffly, like a dignified elder reminding himself that one should not expect good manners from an infant.

"It is a strange thing to meet a neighbor so far from home, son of Eorl," he said lightly instead, addressing the hostile pile of blankets with only the faintest smirk. "I am Haldir, a marchwarden of Lothlorien. Ah! It appears the horselords' children still believe dire tales of the people of the Golden Wood...and some grown men, too, judging by your expression."

"Tales tell many truths. Still, a tale can grow in the telling...perhaps our forefathers mistook biting tongues for blades and sharp words for arrows!" Eomer's tone was guardedly humorous, much to Boromir's relief. The younger man finally kicked the bedroll loose and shook away any lingering sleep.

"I will...apologize for my manner, if I must," he continued, "for what I believed of your kind cannot stand before the truth of what you have done. I thank you for your timely arrival last evening."

"Would that I had arrived sooner." Haldir looked grim. "I crossed the mountains by the mid-passes, and you are lucky that the snows were not yet deep enough to turn me aside. I crossed your trail at sunrise, and I arrived as quickly as I could."

Eomer nodded slowly. "I was indeed wrong about the elves if it is customary for your kind to ride thus to a stranger's aid."

"Your aid...? I was riding to kill wargs," Haldir retorted, but his mouth quirked with a flash of dry humor. He rose gracefully, brushing bits of dry leaf from his clothing. "And now I must be on my way. Follow the river west for a day and you should find haven with the fisherfolk. I bid you farewell."

The two men exchanged a glance that spoke volumes and stood as well. "Wait!" Boromir exclaimed. "We have no desire to travel downriver. We would rather know more of the Bruinen's source."

The elf paused then regarded them with a bland stare. "Upriver? Merely ravines and wilderness, as I hear tell. It is no place for weary wanderers such as yourselves."

Boromir had been in Eomer's company long enough to know that it was useless to speak falsehood to a man of the Mark. Deception was wasted on a people who did not lie. He wondered if that skill extended to discerning the true intent of elves, as well...

...and he hid a grin when his companion blithely replied, "Ravines, wilderness, and the home of Elrond Halfelven, as _I_ hear tell. It must be well-hidden indeed if Elrond's own kin are unaware of its hiding place!"

Haldir's neutral gaze flickered slightly. "I am no kin to the Peredhel," he corrected. "And what do you seek of him, were he there to be found? What boon would you ask of the Imladrim? The days of allegiance between our two peoples are over. There is nothing for you in elven lands."

Eomer muttered something unflattering in his native tongue, but Boromir smiled as he caught the glaring flaw in the Galadhrim's icy logic. "No allegiance? And yet you saved our lives, unbidden and without thought of reward."

Haldir was quiet for a long moment at that. Then, without answering, he shouldered his bow and walked away, towards the riverbank. The sturdy pale-grey mare tossed her head up as if called and pranced across the grass to meet him.

Before he could mount up, however, he was arrested by a hand on his shoulder. The touch was brief and hesitant, so he restrained himself to a fiery glare as he whirled. His blade stayed sheathed, though his fingers rested upon the hilt.

Eomer -- for it was he who had followed and dared thus -- managed to look abashed yet blazingly unrepentant at the same time. "We have not ridden all this time for naught. You are not obligated to us -- in fact, we are indebted to _you_ \-- but know this: we plan to seek out Imladris whether you approve or not!"

The Rider's mercurial demeanor slyly shifted from strident to playful. "And if our paths do continue to coincide, why, then I would welcome the opportunity to be further proven wrong about elves."

Again Haldir was reminded of how young these mortals were. He regarded Eomer evenly, then shifted his gaze to Boromir. Both men were worn, torn, dusty, splattered with dried blood, unshaven, and -- to be honest -- reeked alarmingly. However, he had to admire their determination.

He wavered. The day was waning past noon...he was losing valuable time...

...but...

Haldir sighed and let his hand slide from the mare's withers. His brothers always said that his grudging fondness for the Secondborn would someday be his downfall.

"And what nursery-tale set a rochadan prince and the son of the White City on a hopeless quest?" His words were mocking but his tone held no rancor; he spoke as if genuinely curious.

Eomer reddened and glanced back at Boromir. Boromir squared his shoulders, steeling himself, then stepped forward. "My brother had a dream."

The elf remained expressionless. "Not like your own dream of but a few minutes ago, I hope."

Outwardly, the Gondorian was a mirror to Haldir's tranquility. Inwardly, he shuddered. The fall of Osgiliath was not something he cared to relive.

"No. My dreams are...ordinary enough. But my brother... We may share the same mother and the same father, but it seems that we do not share the same blood. Whatever minor gifts run in the lines of Numenor and Dol Amroth, he bears in full. He dreamed of hope in Imladris, and we cannot turn back until we have found it."

Thus far Haldir had shown little of his personality but shades of calm: aloof, collected, disinterested, and so forth. Even his flash of anger at Eomer's impertinent tap had been kept under tight control. However, surprisingly, Boromir's words had affected him. Something in his eyes...something old, something deep, something that still ached after untold lives of men...

"Dol Amroth, you say?" He pinned Boromir with a bright gaze that seemed to slice through him to the bone and beyond. As if he was hungrily seeking something...and, sadly, not seeing it. " _You_ are kin to the sea-princes?"

Boromir frowned at this sudden scrutiny, bemused and uncomfortable. "My mother was the daughter of Adrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth. Why does this matter so?"

The elf said nothing, but the ancient loss behind his eyes...

Understanding dawned. "I...see. The tales are true, then?"

"I would prefer not to speak of it," Haldir said quietly, and his refusal was answer enough.

"Not all of us are well-versed in the kitchenwomen's gossip of Gondor," Eomer grumbled.

Boromir cuffed him on the arm. "Do not _ever_ let my mother's proud kin hear you call them Gondorian! But...I did not mean to speak over your head, my friend. It has long been said that there is elven blood in the house of Dol Amroth. Many consider it a mere conceit, a local legend. But no one can deny that there are seers born to that bloodline. My mother may have been one...and my brother certainly is."

He glanced back over at Haldir, who had composed himself by now. "I would like to ask you more of this, but for now...for the sake of whomever you lost so long ago...will you speak the truth of Imladris?"

"I shall not," the elf replied, as remote as the moon. Then he relented and allowed, "If your horses can keep up with mine, perhaps...perhaps I may _show_ you instead. But first..."

He trailed off mysteriously. And waited. Any moment now...

"But first _what_?" Eomer demanded, right on cue.

One side of Haldir's mouth quirked up again in that peculiar little half-smile that, while it did not blunt the sting from his words, at least leavened them with sly humor. He wrinkled his nose fastidiously and pointed to the river.

"First, you shall both _bathe_."  



	6. Of Camraderie And High Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eomer and Boromir set out on a dangerous journey to seek Rivendell. This sequel to "Singing In The Sun" (already archived at HASA) is an A/U set just before FOTR.

"You never mentioned that you had elven blood in your veins."

Boromir feigned being too busy guarding Smokechaser's step amid the stones to meet Eomer's curious gaze. "It was just a story," he mumbled aside. "And even if it _is_ true, I wager I'm more orc from all the black blood I've had to scrub away over the years. You know how it soaks in."

"True." Eomer dropped the subject and let his attention wander away to idly scrutinize their new companion's mare. Haldir had been as good as his word. A thorough wash in the river had left both men feeling damp and cold but decidedly more human...and, rather than seizing his opportunity to vanish like smoke, the elf had waited patiently on the bank until they were ready to leave. He'd set a hard pace once they were back in the saddle, true, but the two road-hardened Rohirrim horses were up to the challenge.

Eomer reached a decision. He tightened his heels and Firefoot quickened his pace, trotting a few paces to draw level with Haldir. "I must know. Is she elven-bred?" the Rider asked, indicating the silvery mare with an admiring nod. She was beautiful, but she was not fragile; there was a width to her build and a springy strength in her stride that fascinated him. It was...familiar.

Haldir actually chuckled. Again memories shifted behind his dark gaze, but this time they seemed to be fond ones. "I was wondering how long it would take you to ask."

"Oh ho? If I am so predictable," Eomer joked back, "then what is your answer to my next question?"

The elf did not hesitate for even a heartbeat. "Yes."

"Hah! But is it 'yes, she has mearas blood,' or 'yes, let us discuss her bloodline to pass the time'...?"

Haldir shrugged gracefully. "As they are both essentially the same question: yes."

Behind them, Boromir laughed hard enough to make Smokechaser shake her bridle with annoyance. "He is correct, horselord. You can be somewhat...single-minded."

"I see little other way to while away the hours," Eomer retorted, and perhaps he was right. The day was cold but clear, blue-skied and bright. They were following the Bruinen into the uplands, toward the place of its birth; the river grew ever younger as they moved steadily higher, rushing merrily through ever-deeper clefts. So far, the bank was wide and solid enough for the horses to move at a comfortable clip, though a ravine ahead looked mildly challenging. Insects whirred and birds chittered lazily in the brushy hills above.

To be honest, after the oft-times desperate passage of the last few weeks, this peaceful sunny quiet was almost dull.

"Ah, but there you are wrong. I can see many matters of interest to discuss," Boromir observed, "though most of them concern our new friend, and perhaps he is unwilling to speak candidly of elven mysteries."

Haldir looked puzzled at that, and reined back to allow the Gondorian to catch up. That is, the mare acted as if she'd been reined back; her rider's hands never actually moved, so it was hard to say how she knew what he wanted. "Mysteries...? I think not. There are secrets, and then there is merely the unknown. And for that there are two remedies: speaking, and listening.

"Perhaps you and I would feel more akin were I to confide that I, too, have long been plagued by younger siblings. Brothers -- two of them," he added with a rueful roll of his eyes before either man could ask. "So tell me, man of Gondor: you speak at great length of your affection for your Faramir...but surely you have _other_ tales of him to share...?

"Your brash friend is right, for once; talk will pass the time very well indeed. I will gladly match you story for story -- and more besides, for I suffered two small brothers where you only had one. Perhaps, after you hear the terrible tale of 'Rumil Versus Our Mother's Inkwell,' our peoples will not seem so different after all!"

"Little brothers, eh? And here I thought new elves sprang full-grown from beneath toadstools!" Eomer began broadly, but he fell silent when Smokechaser snorted and shied for no apparent reason. Boromir tried to soothe her, but she was shivering; Firefoot danced an uneasy sidestep or two, and rumbled deep in his chest. Even more startling, Haldir's mare pinned her ears back and stopped dead, refusing to budge another step.

"They've never been wrong before." Boromir set his hand on the hilt of his sword and stared about, his grey eyes as hard as steel, but nothing seemed amiss. Birds still sang in the hills above, and the river drifted serenely past.

Haldir was speaking softly to his agitated mare, but so far his coaxing had no effect -- not even in his own tongue. "Dammathenin, bain pen, sîdh. Alagor achas, iell o beleg rokko...

"She has never acted like this," he explained worriedly. "It is neither wargs nor yrch, for she fears neither. This...there is something in the air, on the wind...something that does not belong."

Eomer drew his sword with a frustrated growl, masking a wince as the movement awoke bruises from the previous day's battle. "And of _course_ this new danger waits between us and our destina--"

The ground beneath their horses' hooves groaned, low and deep. Stones clattered, bushes rattled, and a great rumbling roar grew and grew from the winding ravine ahead...

"The river! _Up!_ " Haldir shouted, and suddenly the approaching tumult made sense to the ear if not to the mind. The horses needed no urging -- they plunged upslope in great driving bounds, and just in time. As the roar reached a rock-shaking peak, a white churning wall of water erupted from the narrow channel a bare dozen yards upstream. Both banks of the Bruinen vanished under a cold muddy torrent that surely would have smashed their steeds' footing and whirled them away on the swollen tide.

The three riders stared from their safe vantage point, clinging to a hillside not ten feet above. The flood was already subsiding, draining back into the channel with the same unnatural swiftness. No clouds in the sky allowed for a rain burst -- could a dam have broken? But who would have built a dam so far upriver, in the wilderness? It was a mystery indeed, whatever Haldir might say of such matters...

Boromir shaded his eyes and leaned forward abruptly. There was flotsam and jetsam in the murky waters, mainly branches and clumps of leaves. Except... "Do you see...? That. There." He gestured at a dark mass bobbing and rolling in the choppy surf. It sank even as he pointed, and was gone. But then there was another. And another...

Bodies.

Eomer exclaimed and urged Firefoot down the hillside, skidding on fresh mud and slick grass. The bank was foot-deep in frothing run-off; when the stallion's hooves struck the treacherously smooth rocks beneath, he finally balked and refused to take another step. No matter. Eomer had no intention of plunging into the water himself. This was as close as he wished to approach -- if the river rose once, it could do so again -- and he was now close enough to identify the drifting corpses.

Horses. And only horses. Despite glimpses of saddle and harness, there were no human bodies to be seen.

Eomer had his people's innate fondness for the animals, of course, but despite his friends' jibes he also had the practical soul of a herdsman and a warrior both. Horses died, be it of colic or arrows, lockjaw or blade. The bodies sweeping past on the current saddened him, yes, but more importantly they confused him. How had they been caught so easily in the deluge in the first place? Sunlight glittered on a stirrup here, a bit-piece there. Where were their riders?

One of the bodies drifted to bump against a rocky curve in the bank, not twenty feet hence. As the other two travelers cautiously edged down from their hillside refuge, Eomer dismounted and squelched through the mud for a closer look. The sodden mound had either been black or very dark brown -- it was hard to tell -- and he scowled at what remained of the tack. Crude workmanship, ill-fitting, carelessly repaired and lashed on with no regard for the comfort of man nor beast.

Not that the poor beast had lived in comfort of any kind, it seemed. He sadly ran one hand over the dark flank, tracing the jut of protruding bone under untended hide...

He paused. And looked closer.

Boromir was now cautiously investigating upstream, so it was Haldir who heard Eomer's strangled gasp. He looked over to watch the Rider rapidly check the corpse from hock to teeth, then blinked at the ensuing torrent of creative invectives. When the man rose and turned, Haldir could almost feel the radiating heat of his fury.

"This is one of ours," Eomer snarled. "I found the marks, I know the breeding. This horse is one of those stolen from the Eastmark herds. So this is how our lost steeds are treated...as if the loss itself was not bad enough! I would very much like to hasten upriver that I may demonstrate how a man of the Mark deals with horse-thieves, and I care not if they serve Mordor itself!"

Boromir heard _that_. He rode back, glancing from friend to corpse then back again. Another body was slowly running aground beyond the first; the shore was becoming a rather gruesome sight. "So the rumor was untrue, then? I had not thought of it since we met, but..."

"Rumor? What rumor?!"

"That..." The Gondorian trailed off, taken aback by the barely controlled rage in his friend's manner. It was not directed at himself, no, but such tension was like a looming thundercloud: all it needed was a spark and a target. Perhaps now was _not_ the time to mention how, once upon a time, he had believed that the horselords willingly sold their prized steeds to Sauron's minions... "It was nothing. I misspoke."

"No, you did not. If there is indeed some ugly false tale rattling about in your skull, I would hear it--"

Something snorted wetly behind him. Eomer whipped around, cursing the fact that his sword was currently lashed to Firefoot. Then he merely stared agape as the second washed-up body...moved.  



	7. Of Blood And Twilight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eomer and Boromir set out on a dangerous journey to seek Rivendell. This sequel to "Singing In The Sun" (already archived at HASA) is an A/U set just before FOTR.

The strange horse lay wheezing for a moment. Then, noticing the men and elf so close, it struggled madly in a spray of gravel to stand panting and splay-legged. It drooped to cough wretchedly, red-tinged water splattering into the mud, but like a cornered wild animal it never shifted its white-ringed gaze from them.

Of the three, Haldir's perceptions were the clearest and the least complex. He saw only a bedraggled black horse that was incredibly lucky to be alive. Even had the floodwaters been gentler, surely the heavy saddle and the cruel bridle should have dragged it to the riverbed.

Eomer saw an affront and a great injustice. This stallion should have been running free across the plains, or serving as a beloved war-companion such as his own Firefoot. Instead, Eomer's horrified gaze tracked over gaunt hollows, torn mouth, and a half-healed crosshatch of spur scars. He edged closer, making small soothing sounds and keeping both hands reassuringly in sight.

Boromir, however, saw nightmare.

For one dark, disorienting moment he stood not by the Bruinen but above the Anduin, on the crumbling causeway with his brother and the last battered few of his men. The east side of the riverborne city was lost -- flames licked over the once-proud ruins, and mishapen shadows dancing with gibbering glee in the ancient streets. Osgiliath had been taken by the enemy. This one last bridge was all the Gondorians yet held, and that only until it could be destroyed to keep the hordes from swarming over the west bank as well...

Then all had gone silent. The day had turned dark. And _he'd_ appeared. Slowly, deliberately, the black rider had emerged from the falling darkness to tread the far end of the causeway. The stones themselves seemed to cringe away from his foul presence. All who had attempted to face him thus far had failed, and fled, or fallen. None could look directly at him, for the eye shuddered and slid aside, but in his darkest dreams Boromir recalled the blood on his sword...the blood on his robes...and the blood on the lethal iron-spiked hooves of his great black steed.

The very same animal, he realized in horror as the brief spasm of memory left him ice-cold under warm sunlight, that now stood on the bank of the Bruinen.

He opened his mouth to shout a warning, but he was too late. Eomer's hand closed on the monster's bridle.

The horse's pain-clouded eyes flashed bright, and it jerked its head up hard. The metal-edged leather ripped open Eomer's palm like a jagged knife. He yelped then flung himself aside as iron-shod hooves lashed out where he'd stood but an instant before.

Mistaking the attack for fear, he scrambled back to allow the animal enough room to obey its instinct to flee. This was a sensible move. It should have worked. After all, once upon a time the black horse had been a colt just like any other born in the grasslands. Once upon a time, perhaps not so very long ago, it might have been possible for a gentle touch and a kind word to stir that lost colt back to life. No horse is evil.

However, a horse can be tortured into expecting nothing but torment at man's hands.

And once this is done, it is easy to twist this despair into blind hatred.

Boromir was already urging Smokechaser forward, shouting, trying to drive her between horse and man, but the bank was too treacherous and he was too far away. He caught one glimpse of Eomer's shock as the ebon stallion deliberately turned upon him...

Then he lost sight of his friend beneath a shrieking whirl of mane and hooves.

He knew he was shouting in his grief, but he did not know what. Too late, Smokechaser found enough purchase to spring forward. Firefoot shrieked a belated challenge behind him -- then Boromir was flung against his mare's neck as she crashed into the black stallion's shoulder at full tilt. The stallion grunted and danced back a step...no, limped back, panting, his deadly intent hampered by injury and confusion...

...and Haldir was there, a nimble silver and grey blur, dodging snapping teeth and thrashing hooves to vault into that ugly jutting saddle. Something grey billowed in the wind, and the black horse shied aside as a cloak whipped around his head. Step by fighting step, the elf grimly hauled him back. "Get to your friend," he barked -- then the cloth was ripped from his hands and the stallion plunged away screaming.

As horse and rider vanished into the hilly countryside at a hard gallop, the Gondorian swung down from his steed's back to land amid the stones. Eomer lay sprawled in the mud, half-curled where he'd tried to defend himself. He wasn't moving. Boromir moved swiftly towards him -- and was stopped short by a wall of angry horse. Not the black stud, thankfully, but a very agitated grey one. Firefoot!

Swallowing a harsh oath, he raised his hands and tried to defuse the situation with a stream of gentle nonsense words. He was acutely aware that he was mirroring the actions which had resulted in his friend's injury...or perhaps even _death_...he could not tell from where he stood...

Luckily, this was no half-mad creature of Mordor. For a tense moment Firefoot stood his ground, teeth bared and ears pinned, barring the way to his master's body...but after months on the road he knew this dark-haired man as a friend. The fire in his eyes faded to apprehension; his ears swiveled hesitantly and he let out a low deep nervous whinny, butting Boromir in the shoulder but allowing him to edge past.

Eomer was still breathing. Boromir exhaled a shaky sigh of relief. Sauron would not claim _this_ life, at least! He was no healer, but he'd seen his share of battlefield injuries; it seemed to him that the Rider had dodged or fended off the worst of the mercifully brief attack. Another few moments and it surely would have been too late. Eomer's arms were sorely battered, and in places links of his light chainmail were driven deep into his skin, but it had saved him from worse. Boromir could see no obvious broken bones.

Still, if one of those deadly kicks had struck stomach or chest...

Mud squished lightly behind Boromir. Haldir looked bleak, his tunic torn and one of his impeccable braids hanging haphazardly loose over his ear. He was sheathing a knife as he approached; the man's gaze flicked to it and back, relaying an obvious question.

"I cut his bridle and the girth," the elf explained tersely. "Perhaps I should have done more -- he was badly injured by the torrent, and may not live to see the dawn -- but I hesitated, and the moment was lost. He threw me, and is gone. How does your friend fare?"

At a loss, Boromir shook his head, so Haldir crouched down beside him to probe for broken ribs. Eomer groaned at his touch and tried to roll tighter. Only now did Boromir see the blood-drenched rock which had been hidden underneath the Rider's long hair.

Boromir snarled a scorching curse. Haldir's head snapped up, startled -- then his gaze tracked over to the spreading pool of muddy crimson. He said nothing, but his expression clouded alarmingly.

"I hope we are closer to Imladris than you led us to believe," Boromir grated. "Do they have healers there?"

"Of course." Haldir's mouth tightened as he weighed their options. "I do not wish to move him, but..."

"But sometimes one has no choice."

Between the two of them, they bound the worst of Eomer's wounds -- his palm, which was laid open nigh to the tendons -- then eased him to his feet. The Rider wavered in and out of semi-consciousness, never quite clawing his way back to the surface. As they edged toward the staring horses, he was suddenly wracked by painful retching heaves; Boromir steadied his friend's head until he lost the entire contents of his stomach and passed out again.

They considered lashing him to Firefoot's saddle, but this was too risky, and impossible without rope. In the end it seemed best to lift him onto Haldir's smooth-gaited mare and let the elf hold him safe. When they set off, the elven horse appeared to understand her new task. She arched her neck and glided over the rough ground like drifting mist...Boromir had never seen a horse move like that...

They set a desperate pace now, winding up and up into the wild country in search of the birthplace of the Bruinen. At one point they crossed a road which forded the river. Bright water rippled invitingly in the shallows. Boromir wanted to turn aside to seek aid from a human settlement, but in this he was denied.

"What few humans venture into these hills are herders, remote and difficult to find. There are no farms," Haldir explained. Eomer shivered unaware within the circle of his arms, blond mane matted with blood and dirt. "I have traveled this way before, though not for many years. It will not be far now."

"You are a messenger, then?" Boromir hazarded, casting an anxious look back as the fords vanished around a curve in the river canyon.

A nod. "My Lady has her own ways of sending messages abroad, but there are times when more is required than words. I am more accustomed to crossing human lands than most of my kin. I welcome these too-few journeys, even if the word I bear lies heavy on the heart."

He fell silent, and Boromir knew that he'd struck the impassable armor that guarded the truth of Haldir's presence in these lands. Still, this was more than the elf had said before. Curiosity goaded him to ask for more information, but diplomacy insisted that he change the subject... The latter reverberated like an echo of his father, and he obeyed. "You speak of your Lady in such strange tones. Tell me more of her?"

Haldir explained and Boromir listened intently to avoid dwelling on Eomer's pallid silence. He'd become deeply fond of the light-hearted Rohir over the past three months. To have fought so many battles and ridden all these long miles only to fall under the hooves of a half-drowned horse! It was absurd. They would laugh long and loud about this later.

He kept telling himself that...but as day faded to night, "later" felt less and less possible. The river dwindled to a restless brook with the passing miles, and still Eomer did not open his eyes. Boromir knew two types of head injuries from his fighting days: the kind men awoke from within a few minutes...and the other kind.

Perhaps they should never have moved him in the first place. Perhaps they should have camped there, above the flood line, and trusted the simple healing properties of rest and quiet. Perhaps...perhaps this was a fools' errand after all. Boromir felt icy doubt creeping over him. What had Haldir said? That it had been years since he had last visited this place. "Years," from an elf, could mean "centuries." What if Imladris was no more? What if the elves of this northern land had truly become mere figures of mist and legend? What if...

As night brightened toward dawn, a shift in Smokechaser's gait broke his despairing spiral of thought. He glanced down to find that the ground was no longer trackless wilderness. The path was faint and narrow, but it _was_ a path, and not one made by deer and other wild things. This trail had been tramped by other horses...and recently.

He'd been far away for some time now, his blank gaze lost in the rhythmic sway and swish of the elven steed's starlit tail. He refocused with a start as she topped a rise and halted, sidestepping to allow Boromir's mare to move up alongside. The riderless Firefoot followed close on her heels.

Haldir was occupied, resettling the extra weight across his mare's back for the downhill ride ahead. Eomer was finally regaining brief moments of consciousness, but he was disoriented and difficult; Haldir murmured quietly yet firmly in elvish as the injured man tried to shove him away.

Boromir noticed very little of this, and for good reason. Past the rise, down the winding road, lay a deep wooded valley laced with silvery waterfalls and the dancing gleam of fireflies in twilit glens. And here and there, among the autumn trees...

"That is...we've..." He swallowed, restraining the urge to shout aloud with joy. "Is this...?"

Haldir glanced up, and whatever witty retort he might have tossed back died at the wonder in the Gondorian's usually guarded expression. Something gentle flickered behind the marchwarden's ancient eyes.

"Yes," he replied simply instead. "This is..."

"Imladris." Eomer's voice was barely a whisper, but he was still alive, and they'd found it, and soon all the riddles would be solved. Or so Boromir thought, rejoicing in his heart, as they hastened down into Rivendell on a fine cold October morning on the eve of the end of the Third Age.

.-= Finis =-.

*******

**Author's notes:**  
TRANSLATIONS

From the Sindarin, courtesy of Ramlatch:  
"Sîdh. Hain pân si mae, abonnen." = Peace. All is now well, afterborn.  
"Dammathenin, bain pen, sîdh. Alagor achas, iell o beleg rokko." = Dammathenin ["true hammer"], beautiful one, peace. Do not fear, daughter of great horses.

Be thankful I didn't have Eomer break into Old English. I am perfectly capable of it.

APOLOGIES

I'm a dead woman for stopping there, ain't I. :)

Seriously though, while I have scattered ideas after this point (and IMHO some of them are rather good), I simply don't have enough stamina to rewrite the entire trilogy. I need a breather, and to get back to work on my other stories...like how Haldir met Eorl (aka "why Lothlorien's horses have mearas blood" -- in my head, the Haldir in that tale is the same Haldir as you met above), or the next installment of the Southern Crown series, or perhaps an A/U about how Elrond became the Lord Of The Rings. Trust me: those humane muse-traps don't work. I'm up to my eyeballs in the bastiches!

BTW, yes, I've already had requests for slash. _mock-glares_ You people! NO. I'm exhausted! However, the way I see it is thus: this is _not_ a slash story. It is the fic equivalent of a buddy flick. But! It is an unspoken fandom rule that all the best buddy flicks inspire slash. So. If _you_ want to slash these boys, well...hey, it'd be a compliment, and I'D certainly read it. *G*

Hope you enjoyed!


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